Cheater, Cheater Pumpkin Eater
by Canadino
Summary: Had a wife, but couldn't keep her. Appreciate your wives, you mafioso. She cooks and cleans and happens to be a guy. 6984


**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: -

The female informant is a brunette.

Mukuro Rokudo has since realized his penchant for brunettes. Blondes are fun but leave him wanting more. Redheads are either a bombshell or smoke. Darker hair, and he sees himself. But brunettes…brunettes are perfect.

"Do you want another drink?" she asks, not compromising by pouting her lips. She looks perfectly ordinary but seductive, her lashes decorating her eyes. She has given him all the information he has been promised and he's given her the money and company to compensate, but she doesn't look tired and he isn't bored. He thinks this makes her the perfect mafia businesswoman. Keep 'em long enough and she can get whatever tip she needs.

He tips his glass toward the bartender and the man hustles over to refill it. She smiles, lifting the glass with a smidge of lipstick on the rim to her mouth. The smoky atmosphere hazes up his senses; the darkness hides everyone else and the murmur of the music lingers in the background like a reluctant aftertaste. But he is learned in mafia dealings too; with a flash of red eye, he studies this woman.

"This doesn't seem like your place," he says, the scotch tasting faint on his mouth. He's had his share of alcohol in this life already. She shifts her body toward him, coy and slight like she's not interested. The black of her dress accentuates her curves; hips he admires. She stands tall in stilettos and tosses a handful of hair behind her shoulder.

"What do you think is my place?"

"Cocktail napkins and caviar," he replies. His fingers flutter up to his collar, tugging it in a sign of mock insecurity, although he feels completely confident. "In my arms, perhaps."

She laughs, a tinkling sound akin to the sound her fingernails make on her glass. "Mr. Rokudo, you are bold tonight."

"It pays to be bold in this business." And so.

"I'll pay you back in equality. Your place or mine?"

"Such a sweet lady, you will not like my place. It is not up to your tastes." She raises her eyebrows. "I would like you to teach me your civility, and I will teach you all my secrets." He watches her ponder this as she fiddles with the paper umbrella in her glass, opening and closing the delicate thing. One last time, she pokes a hole in it with sudden force.

"I think I want to take you up on your lessons, Mr. Rokudo." She angles her hips, hair falling past her smiling chin and onto her chest, daring him to make a move to brush it away. Mukuro feels a vibration in the walls, but it is not the music, or the excitement, or even a small earthquake, which might be preferable in this case.

The door to the bar opens with such force that many heads turn and many hands reach for hidden holsters. But the door only holds an unsuspecting nineteen year old, one of small stature and delicate frame. But the face is dark, shadows darting across it from the blue Dying Will flame burning against his forehead.

"Boys should stay at home," she says, turning away from this new event with disinterest. It has ruined the moment between her and Mr. Rokudo and she does not notice the way Mukuro has not looked away from the door. In fact, she does not know that the boy in question is walking toward them until she feels the air crackling with electricity. She turns again to survey the youth approaching; out of dress code, a white, slightly frilly apron covering what _would_ have been a mafia-approved suit. But now she sees the blade in one hand, stainless steel ladle in the other. "Mukuro, who…"

"Bitches." This comes out a hiss, so low she nearly did not catch it. "Mukuro, get over here." She turns to her companion and sees Mukuro looking calmly back at the boy, who finally reaches the bar, shooting infuriated glares at the both of them. She twists to appear welcoming but it's clear this newcomer is here to rip apart their to-be night together.

Mukuro sounds calm as he puts his glass back down at the bar. "How did you know I was here?"

"I have my sources," the boy answers. She doesn't see, but Mukuro narrows his eyes as he searches the bar, and in a booth, by himself, the shape…almost…looks…like…Hibari. There is a snap and a flash of a phone and the man turns – it is Hibari, and he is smirking something awful. "I was wondering why you weren't home yet." Mukuro turns back to him, but Basil has already turned his attention to the brunette.

"I'm sure your mother taught you not to be a home wrecker," he snarls, the anger sliding off his usually melodic voice. This, Mukuro knows, is one of the reasons why he lives with Basil; angelic, but at heart a Mafia wife. Basil switches his weapon to a ladle, because whore or not, it is unsophisticated of a Vongola member to hurt a lady. "Chase after another man." She blinks and nods, only because she isn't expecting to be told off by a man not yet twenty.

The boomerblade flashes and familiarizes itself with Mukuro's neck. "Come with me, or the Boss's information will be the least of your worries." Basil turns, the ribbon of the apron whipping rather unthreateningly, but Mukuro turns to the brunette and shrugs, smiling sheepishly and she gapes as he follows the boy.

"Men," she breathes, scowling for a bit before turning back to her drink and another night by herself.

[=]

"This is the last time I'm cooking for you. I want your stuff out of my place by tomorrow."

"Come on, _bella_, don't be like that~." Mukuro finds that keeping up with Basil is an easy feat; it is Basil who has to do a two-step shuffle to try and outpace Mukuro. It is a fact that frustrates the poor boy, because he eventually stops and turns to Mukuro.

"I've had enough of your womanizing ways. If you'd rather spend a night with that _puttana_, I would rather not have you coming back to me in the morning." Basil crosses his arms, the blue flame flickering in the darkness. Mukuro studies his frown before daring a touch, creeping his fingers up the boy's neck.

"You _say_ that, darling," he purrs, smirking when he feels Basil shiver at his touch. "But you always take me back every single time."

"No, I won't. I've had enough of your behavior."

"_Tesoro_…" He's well versed in how to flatter in Italian, and Basil is soft against his mother tongue. Mukuro's sure that after years of training under Iemitsu in a purely Japanese setting, the Italian is welcome to his ears. "I'm sorry…she looked like you…I can't resist a pretty brunette."

"There are lots of brunettes!" Basil protests, trying to push Mukuro away as the illusionist cups his face with his hands. "I won't be your backup!" Other protests make weak attempts at arguments but Mukuro's face is too close and has activated Basil's Japanese ways. Such a mixed up boy; while he considers himself Italian, and Sawada is Japanese, Basil is both, swirled like a nice rum and ice. Mukuro smiles, and Basil murmurs _cazzo_, hits Mukuro across the side of the head lightly with the ladle, and kisses him.

Owari

[=]

Note: If you're on dA, I drew something for this…because Hibari would hate on Mukuro to be Basil's informant…how I love this pairing. 6984 for the win! GTFO, hos! Thanks for reading.


End file.
